And then my son screamed at his little brother for taking his glue stick, it was a tired scream, a yelling fit that signaled intervention. Because I had paused, I didn't get angry, I didn't come in and bark. I swooped up my son, took him upstairs, laid with him as he calmed down, asked for a story. We shared a beautiful moment, a kind moment, together. He told me about his day at school. Then when it was over, he said "I'm not mad anymore. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I love you mama. My body says I'm ready to go back downstairs." No kidding. That's what happened.
And the dishes are still piled high in the sink, maybe Daddy will get those tomorrow.